Above her, the single lightbulb began to flicker. These old houses, I thought to myself. The wiring’s always out of date.

‘Are you sure? You’re looking a little pale.’

‘Just a headache. I’ll manage.’

Familiar words. But I doubt she will; she clings to the child as if I might snatch her from her arms.

Might I, do you think? Twice married (though on neither occasion under my own name), and still I’ve never once thought of having a child. The complications are endless, so I’ve heard, and besides, in my line of work, the last thing I can afford is excess baggage.

And yet . . .

I drew the cactus sign of Xochipilli in the air, keeping my hand well out of view. Xochipilli the silver-tongued; the god of prophecy and dream. Not that I’m particularly interested in prophecies. But careless talk can bring rewards, so I have found, and information of any kind is currency for someone in my line of business.

The symbol gleamed and floated for a second or two, dispersing like a silvery smoke-ring in the dark air.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Well, to be honest, I hadn’t expected much of a result. But I was curious; and didn’t she owe me a little satisfaction, after all the effort I’ve made on her behalf?

So I made the sign again. Xochipilli the whisperer, unlocker of secrets, bringer of confidences. And this time, the result was beyond all my expectations.

First, I saw her colours flare. Just a little, but very bright, like a flame in the hearth as it encounters a pocket of gas. Almost at the same time, Rosette’s sunny mood altered abruptly. She arched back in her mother’s arms, throwing herself backwards with a whimper of protest. The flickering lightbulb popped with a sudden sharp report – and at the same time, a pyramid of biscuit tins fell over in the window display with a clatter fit to wake the dead.

Yanne Charbonneau was taken off-balance and she took a step sideways, striking her hip against the counter.

There was a little open-fronted cabinet on the counter, which housed a collection of pretty glass dishes filled with sugared almonds in pink, gold, silver and white. It wobbled – instinctively Yanne reached out a hand to steady it – and one of the dishes fell to the floor.

‘Rosette!’ Yanne was almost in tears.

I heard the dish pulverize on impact, skittering bonbons across the terracotta tiles.

I heard it go, but did not look down; instead I watched Rosette and Yanne – the child aflame in her colours now, the mother so still she might as well have been stone.

‘Let me help.’ I bent down to scoop up the mess.

‘No, please—’

‘I’ve got it,’ I said.